


Goodbyes

by Mints (HeadedMints)



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: ask to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 01:09:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11748972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeadedMints/pseuds/Mints
Summary: lostlôst, läst1.past and past participle of lose.adjectiveadjective: lost1.unable to find one's way; not knowing one's whereabouts.synonyms: off course, off track, disorientated, having lost one's bearings, going around in circles, adrift, at sea, astrayunable to be found.synonyms: missing, mislaid, misplaced, vanished, disappeared, gone missing, gone astray, forgotten, nowhere to be found; Moreabsent, not present, strayed;irretrievable, unrecoverable(of a person) very confused or insecure or in great difficulties.2.denoting something that has been taken away or cannot be recovered.synonyms: bygone, past, former, one-time, previous, old, olden, departed, vanished, forgotten, consigned to oblivion, extinct, dead, goneevents leading up to the professor's disappearance, and the consequences thereof





	1. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dream  
> drēm  
> noun
> 
> plural noun: dreams
> 
> 1.  
> a series of thoughts, images, and sensations occurring in a person's mind during sleep.
> 
> synonyms: REM sleep; nightmare; vision, fantasy, hallucination

Fortunately for Hershel, being a gentleman meant more about creating an amiable and polite atmosphere, as well as presenting yourself properly than sharing feelings and emotions.  
However, he warmly welcomed the idea of keeping his thoughts to himself in a manner in which he would not burden those around him. Even if his mind would begin to sway, and full lucidity would squirm and escape his grasp - as it sometimes did - being a gentleman was now an automatic response. It mattered not how coherent his thoughts were if he upheld a cordial exterior and kept his sentiments to himself: something he found quite comforting.  
Any pain he felt didn't matter - neither did the past - so long as he kept a gallant nature. It was a code he'd long ago sworn to follow, and he hadn't planned to abandon it.  
The hat seemed a symbol of his creed. It almost never came off - it took quite the occasion to do so - and so the looks of the top of his skull remained unknown, and made of mere idea rather than fact. His students would joke that the cap was part of him, and taking it off would open his brainpan. Luke, too, often claimed that removing his headwear would result in all the puzzles the professor had completed - as well as all the hint coins he'd pocketed over the years - tumbling out the top his head.  
He'd become rather despondent over the years, despite it all, and had plunged deeper into the shell he himself had created. It was a husk which had grown thicker with time, more and more layers covering the broken, torn ones beneath them. It had a rather haphazard constructure, one that had been crumbling since the day it was conceived - itself being the sole reason it was fashioned in such a slipshod, slapdash manner.  
This, of course, did nothing to alleviate his pain. The constant wretchedness had never faded, and never would: it simply became something he was inured towards, a background - noise - white - static sort of thing. He went to great lengths to hide it - a gentleman never burdened others when the problem was his alone. It was due to this that he became so desensitized, and his feelings now so neutered and restrained.  
Luke, of course, noticed. Other people would just assume that his brain held so many riddles and quandaries that such vital practices became mundane and unimportant. The little Triton, however always noticed how the professor wouldn't eat, and how he wouldn't sleep and nearly collapse during the day out of hunger and exhaustion. He so easily saw through his thick shell, constantly peering through the face Layton so painstakingly upheld. His father was right - the boy had a good head on his shoulders.  
However, such difficulties remained undiscussed. Hershel had been told by many - some of which he considered close friends - that he'd only brought them upon himself. It all seemed so simple on their view of the situation. They all didn't have as good a grasp on it as they thought, however.  
Simply don't think of the people who you've lost. Out of sight, out of mind.  
Just stay focused, and then you won't feel so separated from yourself. Stop being such an airhead.  
When you want to hurt yourself you're obviously just not thinking straight! Get your head back in one piece, boy. You should never take such drastic measures - such thoughts shouldn't even cross your mind.  
Just try and breathe when you're in a panic. There's really nothing for you to be so scared of, Hershel! Don't be such a baby.  
All bits of advice that seemed simple in theory, but much more complex and difficult in practice. No matter how hard he tried -  and god, he tried - nothing worked. He bottled everything up to the point where he was primed to fall apart and rupture, and then some.  
When he did reach such a point, however, he would politely remove himself from the situation and wander back to his study, lead footed and weary eyed. There, in a place where he could bring harm upon no one but himself, he would be racked with indomitable weeping fits that almost nothing could gratify. His brain would burn in feverish self flagellation and contrition, urging him to dress his arms in crimson, or, perhaps, burn himself with water from the kettle. He knew such thoughts were irrational, meaningless things, yet he often found himself carrying them out: such acts seemed the only way he could lessen his sorrow and soothe his anxieties the moment they occurred.  
Hershel still had rather joyful memories, of course. He could distinctly remember every freckle on Randall's face when he was younger, and the curve of his lips when he smiled. He could still feel Claire's gentle touch of his hand, and see her long and curly, tawny hair (though he could not even recall what his first mother had looked like). Every one of these recollections, however, soon led to painful thoughts of death, impossibly deep pits, and a vivid reminiscence of choking grey smoke an intense blaze, and a month he'd sacrificed in a hospital bed: therefore, they were often avoided rather than dwelled upon. Nightmares of such would rouse him nearly every night, as they did this specific evening.  
He sat on the stairs in a house he didn't remember ever setting foot in - though it felt very familiar - and watched as it was consumed by flames. Hershel stood, and though there was smoke, felt none of it enter his lungs. He could smell the burning walls, and taste the ash in the air, yet he lived. He turned and took the steps to the second floor, but stopped at the top of the stairwell.  
There, standing in her pristine beauty, was Claire. She took a step forward, and he took a step back. She couldn't be here, she couldn't be alive and well - but some part of him clung to her, and it ached with longing. Their last touch had been so long ago, and he felt deprived of the pleasures she'd brought with her, such as simply holding her hand.  
He kept moving away from her, back towards the stairs. He turned - he could go back down to the first floor, along with the ashes and the smoke - but the stairway had been replaced by an orange and white inferno. He looked to Foley, but she merely looked and smiled as though nothing was wrong.  
The side of his hat was the first thing to burn. The blaze clung to it, and then to his jacket and the rest of his clothes. The fire ate away at his skin, devouring his muscle and gnawing on his bones. The entirety of his arms, his torso - and even the side of his face - were engulfed by the flames, being torn apart hungrily by the heat.  
Claire held out her hand. Hershel took it, his entire body shaking, the unbearable pain overwhelming any of his other thoughts. Her own palm was not even grazed by the fire, nor did it become aflame or burn. She twisted her slender pale fingers around his, holding onto the cadaverous silhouette of what they once were.  
Her mouth was brought closer to his, her other hand resting against his cheek. A gentle smile graced her face as their lips brushed against each other, heat spreading in his cheeks - and it was not from the flames that were now eating away at his legs. She reached out once more, arms passing into the flickering blaze behind them.  
"Hershel . . ."  
He awoke in a cold sweat. Lifting himself up, Layton felt a blanket slide off his back. He stared down at blurred lines on several wildly scattered sheets of paper, blinking a few times - meaning he'd fallen asleep at his desk in the office again. His back ached from laying in such a strange position as he ran five fingers through his thick, brown curls.  
Wait. Surely he was mistaken - where was his hat? His head swivelled, his search growing ever more frantic with each passing second. Dread swelled in his chest. He didn't recall ever removing his headwear. Where could it have gone, anyway?  
Hershel stood, his knees cracking. His spine bitterly protested as he pulled his arms behind his head and stretched, briefly yawning.  
Another quick look around the study yielded no better results. The lights were off, but a gentle light filtered in through the window above the bureau. He'd slept late into the afternoon - luckily, he'd no class scheduled for today, otherwise he would have missed it - though he had caught up on a few nights of sleep lost over the past week.  
Hershel shuffled around a bit, bumping into the round table behind his desk. He quickly worked to right it, saving the kettle on top of it from falling to its doom. The orange sofa was empty - he rarely used it, unless he had company.  
"Oh, Professor," His head shot up, focusing on the young boy to which the voice belonged. In his hand was a cup of tea. The brown liquid steamed angrily from its porcelain prison. "You're awake! I let myself in."  
"Hello, Luke," He moved to rub the sleep out of his eyes. "I didn't hear you pass the threshold."  
"You were out like a light when I came in earlier, so I'm not too surprised," Triton must have put the blanket over him. Perhaps he had something to do with the disappearance of his hat, as well. "I made some earl grey! It's black tea, too - not oolong or green."  
"When did you - " He cut himself off, looking back at the table he'd knocked over earlier. A faint hazel stain formed on the wood floor beside it: the teapot. He made a record of the puddle, hoping to clean it later. Layton graciously accepted the demitasse offered, feeling it warm his entire being, inside and out. Hershel sighed. "Thank you, Luke."  
"No problem, Professor! I took off your hat after I came in," Luke smiled at his gratitudes. Layton's eyes again went around the room, glazing over the piles of papers that had yet to be organized. They probably never would be cleaned away, anyway: he was never one to keep his place very tidy.  
A model train sat on the bookshelf, neatly assembled, unlike the rest of his office. It was a small Sir Lamiel steam engine, and a gift that Luke had given him some time after he'd mentioned his enthusiam towards such machines. The green and black thing blended well with the dark bindings of the books alongside it, having remained there ever since he'd finished building it.  
"You looked pretty uncomfortable, and you were covering most of the davenport, so I moved it next to the bookcase," Hershel bent down to set the cup on the stout, round stand, resting it beside the kettle. He moved over to where the boy had mentioned, finding the silk hat unharmed. A stack of papers collapsed as he withdrew the article in question, dusting it off and placing it firmly on his head once more. "You were mumbling in your sleep, Professor. You sounded awfully fraught about something. Are you okay?"  
"I'm quite alright, Luke. Thank you for your concern, however," His mind drifted to other things, now that his hat had been found and was with him once more. Surely, Flora was anxious as to why he hadn't returned home - it was likely Alfendi and young Katrielle were, as well. She knew he would occasionally spend a night at his study, but he worried that her fears might overwhelm her yet. She'd always gotten so wound up when they left for a few days - she'd already lost so much, and if she lost them, well . . . "I should be getting home. Flora must be worried sick by now."  
"Oh, let me come with you, Professor!" Luke spoke behind him, and he turned to face the boy. His fists were forced out in front of him, and his eyes held the same excitement he had seen when Triton had first asked to tag along so long ago. "I haven't been to your flat in ages!"  
"I don't see why not," Luke's eyes lit up with a childlike joy. He and Flora were rather close - almost like brother and sister, as it were. "Though you'd best tell Clark of your plans."  
"Thanks, Professor!" He hurried off towards the phone against the wall, resting in its cradle. Hershel quickly gathered the few things he'd brought, hefting his trunk into one of his hands and straightening the lapel of his jacket with the other. The boy had soon concluded his rather brief phone call with Clark, and returned to the doorway.  
"Are you all ready to go?"  
"Of course! An apprentice of the great Professor Layton always has to be ready to move!"  
"Yes, well," He laughed a little - enough to remain proper - his face lifting along with his mood. Luke always had a way of making him smile: though he was unsure as to whether it was what he said, or how he said it. "Let's hope the weather holds up, so as to not dampen your enthusiasm."


	2. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> home
> 
> hōm  
> noun
> 
> 1.  
> the place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.  
> synonyms: residence, place of residence, house, apartment, flat, bungalow, cottage

The professor's car was easily noticable in the university's parking lot. The red vehicle's tall roof stood out, disticnt amongst the noticeably shorter cars around it. Once they'd reached it, his trunk was promptly returned to its rightful place across the back seat, and Luke joined him in the front.  
"Ah, how I've missed you, Laytonmobile," The boy ran a hand along the inside of the passenger door.  
"Really, now? That's odd," The older man fumbled with his seatbelt a moment before turning the key into ignition. The car hummed to life with a single twist - surely, someone had already made an excellent puzzle out of this. "I don't remember you sharing quite the same sentiments when we first visited St. Mystere . . ."  
"Ah! Well . . ." He pressed his fingers against each other, flustered. The road was spread out before them: it would take but fifteen minutes for Layton to find his way home. "Er, that is, I, uh . . ."  
"I'm merely putting you on, my boy," He let out a restrained chuckle - a gentleman never laughed at another's expense. Luke's face lit up, his brows knitting together in a strange mixture of surprise and the sudden acknowledgement of his folly. "I don't mind your sudden fondness towards it."  
"Ah, you got me," He laughed - unabated, unlike the professor himself - and set his hands on the leather seat, which had been slightly baked by the early morning sun. "It do like it, though. It feels an awful lot like a second home - kind of like with you and your office, Professor."  
"I'll admit, being in here with you again does feel rather nostalgic," He watched Luke gaze out the window from the corner of his eye, something or other catching his attention. His curiousity had helped many a time during their investigations - an admirable quality, in certain situations. "Like our first few adventures."  
"Oh, Professor! Isn't this your house?" He pressed a finger to the window, smudging it against the glass. He made a mental note to wipe down the pane later (one he'd actually follow up on, the red car being his pride and joy and second to only his family and friends). "It's rather winsome. And small."  
"A true gentleman need not take any unnecessary extra features, Luke. We get along just fine," Though he had to admit, it was rather cramped with four people. Three bedrooms left Katrielle and Flora both staying in one - much to the former's dismay, as her older brother therefore had an entire room to himself (a luxury she coveted) - but there were two floors, and a kitchen that was often used. It had felt like the perfect fit when he'd finally decided that he couldn't raise children in his university study. And he had tried. "It's quite homely, I assure you."  
A cement path led up to the front door and the square window beside it, off of the driveway were he'd left the car. He never really used the rather bijou garage (for anything other than storing the Laytonmobile, at least. It was housed there when it rained, in which he used quite excessively) though it did add a certain look to the home that one couldn't ignore.   
A black fence ran along the borders of the property, a few shrubs along the outside of its perimeter. There were two small balconies - Flora had had one in her tower, and claimed that any home without one was a lost cause - one above the garage, and the other above the doorway. The house was primarily made of white brick, with a rather small backyard in comparison to the amount of people living there. An apricot roof framed the construction, its rounded peak thrust upwards and into the sky.  
He'd brought Luke here a few times. The cases handed down to Layton often took multiple days of work to complete, and Luke had tagged along a couple times to help solve them (though he usually fell asleep far before Hershel did, leaving him to work alone into the night and the subsequent morning). However, a few months ago his schedule had been taken up by school and the like, and today was his first time back since then.  
"I'm home," He called out, and his words were answered by the pounding of six feet on wooded floors. "I've brought Luke with me, as well."  
"Professor!" Flora was the first to arrive, Katrielle following not too far behind, and Alfendi behind her. He bent down to receive the tackle of an embrace she gave him. "Where were you?"  
"I stayed overnight at the office, my dear," He ran a hand through her thick, hazel hair, holding her against him. Hershel was no longer so adverse to such contact, like he'd been before (merely hugs and hand holding used to make him turn redder than a cherry and melt in his shoes). "I'm truly sorry if I've worried you."  
"No, no," She pushed away from him, arms holding her body off his chest. Katrielle turned and ran off towards her brother, who was just now arriving in the entrance hallway.   
Alfendi fumbled with several newspapers, trying to cram them in his pant pockets and dropping most of them. He'd move to pick them up, losing more in the process: explaining his slow approach.   
"It's fine. You didn't leave for three days or more like you used to . . . and you probably would have told me if you were going to leave. So I don't need to worry."  
"I'm glad my abscense didn't trouble you as much as it used to." He brought her close again, her head propped against his shoulder. Behind her, Katrielle helped to gather the articles that had fallen, placing them in her brother's outstretched arms. She soon finished with the task, rushing over as he let go of Flora.  
"Daddy!" Kat took her place, nestling her smaller body against his. "Daddy Daddy Daddy!"  
"Good evening, Katrielle. I see that you're still as upbeat as ever." He sighed. The girl had been with him less than a year and had already managed to steal his heart. Her hair rolled at her shoulders, light brown ringlets falling down her back and onto her chest.  
"Who's the boy?" She pushed up onto the balls of her sock clad feet, eyeing him curiously over her father's shoulder. He stood aside as she approached Luke, bouncing on her toes. "Who's he?"  
"Ah, right. Luke, this is Katrielle. I took her under my wing a few months back."  
"Oh, er, hi, Katrielle! I'm Luke Triton, the professor's apprentice and gentleman in training," He held out a hand, and after an awkward moment of careful inspection, she took it, shaking it much more than she needed to (Luke looked rather shaken, himself). "Nice to meet you."  
"Hi! I'm Katrielle Layton, solver of mysteries, and gentlewoman in training! You can call me Kat," She beamed. "Though most people call me Lady Layton."  
"No one calls you that, Kat," His son seemed to have reached a compromise, pockets full of neatly rolled papers. His back was straight, curly red locks flipped down in front of his eyes. "She hasn't solved a mystery in her life."  
"Oh, Al," Luke flashed him a maladroit smile, hand falling from Katrielle's. Alfendi walked up to stand beside Flora, quickly combing back his hair with five slender digits. A distant, mellowed smile graced his face. "Is that you? I haven't seen you in a while."  
"Alfendi. Sorry, but Al just left. Though it is nice to see you again," He let out a small sigh, hands going to his pockets and his back bending (he never did have the best posture). "On another note - I lost the article about you discovering Ambrosia, Father. Do you have any spares? All the kids at school said it was too long ago . . ."  
"I recall having one or two in the study. I'll be sure to look for them next time I go." He smiled. The boy had always scrounged around and collected papers of his escapades. They were all promptly placed in a desk in his room, and moved to his pockets when he got dressed each morning. "And how have you been? I did leave you three alone for quite a while last night . . ."  
"We were fine." Alfendi was the first to respond, Flora shrugging her shoulders and Katrielle midway through forming an answer. "Flora made dinner, and we had leftovers for lunch. There's still some left over, if you want any."  
"Thank you," His children were more than capable of taking care of themselves, and one of them was still in the single digits. "I'm truly sorry for leaving you alone. I lost track of the time and dozed off."  
"But you'll stay today, right, Daddy?" It was Katrielle's turn now. She wore a smile from ear to ear, eyes expectantly staring into his. He'd meant to go back tonight to look over a case once more, but it could wait, surely. He had a class scheduled two days from now: then he would take his leave. "Pleeeaase?"  
"Certainly, dear." He returned her grin, albeit with one more than just a mote muted. "I'll have to leave in two days time, however."  
"Yay!" She cheered, running over to her siblings. All of them crowded around each other in a huddle, excitedly chattering with one another.  
"Would you consider staying for dinner, Luke?" Flora broke the bubble between the three, turning to face him. "I've a new recipe I've been meaning to try out!"  
"Yes," Hershel directed his own gaze upon his apprentice. Surely, Clark wouldn't mind. It wasn't as if the boy spent much time in his own house anyway. "Think of it as a welcome back, seeing as you've been rather preoccupied with your studies."  
"Of course! I wouldn't pass up Flora's cooking for the world." He tipped the edge of his hat - Layton nearly felt compelled to do the same. "I'll just need to inform my father, first."  
As Luke once again hurried off to a phone (the second time today, and likely not the last), Flora and Katrielle trailed after him. Alfendi remained, quiet and meek on his own. He tangled his fingers together, then apart, stringing up his hands between each other.  
"Thank you," He mumbled, looking up at his father. Hershel felt a sudden swell of contentment, just from looking into those yellow eyes. "The house felt really empty without you here."  
The boy scurried off to join the other children. He could hear the clattering of pots and pans in the kitchen - it seemed that Flora had already decided on what they would prepare. Hershel sighed, taking a look out the square window. The sun had ducked below the horizon, being eaten by the esurient night. Clouds drew in overhead, passing over the moon, before revealing it once more, as if the heavens played knock - down - ginger with the surface of the earth.


	3. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fear  
> ˈfir  
> noun
> 
> 1.  
> an unpleasant emotion caused by the belief that someone or something is dangerous, likely to cause pain, or a threat
> 
> synonyms: terror, fright, fearfulness, horror, alarm, panic, agitation, trepidation, dread, consternation, dismay, distress; anxiety, worry, angst, unease, uneasiness, apprehension, apprehensiveness, nervousness, nerves, perturbation, foreboding; informalthe creeps, the shivers, the willies, the heebie-jeebies, jitteriness, twitchiness, butterflies (in the stomach)
> 
> phobia, aversion, antipathy, dread, bugbear, nightmare, horror, terror; anxiety, neurosis; informal hang-up

Luke's father retrieved him late into the night. He gave a few enervated goodbyes before retreated to the backseat of Clark's car, his mother occupying the front passenger side. Brenda gave him a shy wave as the pulled away, and he returned it with an equally awkward gesture of his own. He spied Luke resting in the back - his own children should be getting to bed soon, as well.  
He stumbled upstairs, seeing the three already asleep. Did he truly have such skewed hours? Layton urged himself to rest: he had no work on hand to distract himself, and soon submitted to the suggestion, flopping down onto the mattress in his room. The bed felt silken compared to the poorly upholstered chair at his desk.  
Under the covers, he stirred for a few minutes before succumbing to exhaustion.  
In his dreams he wandered through a forest, where the trees were high enough and large to block out most the sun. A well - trodden, firmly beaten dirt path twisted between the copious vegetation, a fresh set of footprints in front of his. It was fairly hot - he regretted wearing a jacket and such thick, long pants.  
Something rustled in the leaves. He turned, but the sound moved to the opposite side of him. Shadowed figures surrounded him, their silhouettes sharp, like knives. Hershel moved to look behind him, and saw even more of the demons lurking in the brush. They circled him, growing closer with each passing second, whispering and screaming all at the same time, condemning him and comforting him all at once. Some wished his death, and others, his well - being. They closed in on him, all of them brandishing their awful weapons. Swords drawn, they finally began to trod upon the pebble strewn path.  
That was when he started running.  
Panic overwhelmed him, everything shifting and changing. The leaves that had once rustled gently in the wind became spiders, bushes and birds becoming monsters and forsaken gods. Everything frightened him, yet everything was so vivid in his mind: it felt as though he could see every facet in the arachnid's eyes, see every bandage covering the awful beasts staggering towards him. The ground grew harder, dirt crumbling to reveal vine draped stones. A tree trunk had taken over part of the floor, uprooting several bricks around it. He kept running. There was nothing behind him anymore, but he kept trying to escape them - escape something that didn't exist anymore, something that had died long ago.  
The earth gave out beneath him, and he fell. He could hear rushing water down below, and he felt a hand grab his own. A glance down, and he caught sight of a stream, far, far below where he precariously dangled. Hershel could see jagged stones being consumed by the foaming river. Could anyone survive such a fall?  
"I'll miss you," His savior spoke, and Hershel's head shot up. Randall's grip on his arm was lessening, losing strength with each breath he took. "I'll miss you, and Henry, and Angela, and Dalston. I'll miss all of you."  
"What - " He barely had time to react before he was plummeting to the rapids below, the pounding of the current growing louder and louder, roaring in his ears and shaking his bones. He looked down at his trembling hands, but the only thing they gave him was a glimpse of the golden mask.  
The hungry rivulet swallowed him whole. The churning water filled his lungs, ears, and eyes, blurring each and every line until nothing could be distinguished from anything. Fear filled his entire being, his arms struggling - and failing - to pull him above the river's surface. The chill of the water sank through his skin and into his very core.  
Yet another hand gripped his. It brought him up out of the stream, dropping him onto the wet, muddy bank. The moist dirt stuck to his palms as Hershel slowly pushed himself up. His second rescuer was far less vibrant than Randall ever was. The only color in his wardrobe besides offset blacks was the white at the toes of his shoes. Layton looked up, trying to get a good look at the stranger's face.  
His temple was covered by a bone white mask, yet his eyes were endless black pits one could never hope to escape.


	4. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> es·cape  
> əˈskāp  
> verb
> 
> 1.  
> break free from confinement or control.
> 
> synonyms: run away/off, get out, break out, break free, make a break for it, bolt, flee, take flight, make off, take off, abscond, take to one's heels, make one's getaway, make a run for it; disappear, vanish, slip away, sneak away; informal cut and run, skedaddle, vamoose, fly the coop, take French leave, go on the lam

Hershel woke up terrified and in a horrible bout of diaphoresis, but alive. His entire body shuddered as the tension left him, as if through some sort of catharsis. He was at the house, his three children were just down the hall, sleeping, and everyone was safe.  
He needed to get out. He wanted to go out and get some fresh air - it seemed he would lose more sleep yet tonight. It wasn't as if the late night outing was too unusual. He often went out for a drive while the three were asleep, and would return in the morning hours before they woke.  
He rose from his bed, picking his hat from the nightstand and planting it firmly on his head once more. He blindly wandered through the room and out into the hall, stopping at the girls' room. Hershel opened the door a crack, peering in to see both fast asleep (as they should be, as it was quite late). A gentle smile played on his face as he pulled away, closing off the doorway once more.  
He sluggishly made his way down the stairs, hand loosely draped over the railing. He reached the square window at the front, casting a weary eyed glance outside. The evening sky was a rich purple, thick clouds rolling in, debating on whether to storm or lazily float by. The moon's glow perturbed the cloud cover, shedding stolen light through gaps in the grey mist. His hand lingered over the doorknob: he could leave right now, perhaps return to the office to look over his recent case. He even contemplated cleaning up the tea stain that had likely already settled in the study's oaken floor. Where ever it was that he went, he simply needed to leave here.


	5. Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ques·tion  
> ˈkwesCH(ə)n  
> noun
> 
> 1.  
> a sentence worded or expressed so as to elicit information.
> 
> synonyms: inquiry, query; interrogation
> 
> verb  
> 1.  
> ask questions of (someone), especially in an official context.
> 
> synonyms: interrogate, cross-examine, cross-question, quiz, catechize; interview, debrief, examine, give the third degree to; informal grill, pump

Alfendi stirred in bed. Muffled footsteps made their way down the hall, from his father's room. He swung his feet off the mattress, wandering into the hall. A blurred figure lingered near the top of the stairs, before slowly descending with heavy feet on the creaking floorboards. He went to investigate, naturally. Curiousity was one of his strong suits, as was a set of practiced quiet feet, silenced through years of hiding in his old home, from false parents who never cared for him, whose words were too angry and hands did nothing but hurt.  
His father stood, motionless, at the front door. He was still in the clothes he'd been wearing last night (he'd probably gone to sleep with them on), and his back was turned to him. His head suggested he was looking at the door, but it seemed something else, out the window, caught his eye.  
"Father?" The man nearly jumped out of his shoes before turning to face him. Alfendi pushed the back of his hand on his eye, brushing away the rheum. "What are you doing?"  
His father gave a neutered smile.  
"I'm simply going out for a bit." He bent down, lifting the young boy into his arms. He was always thin and lean, unlike his father, but that didn't hold any meaning between the two. "You should be getting back to bed."  
"But what about you?" He yawned. "Why aren't you going back to bed?"  
"I'm afraid . . ." He trailed off, walking towards the stairs. What had happened to his father, a man who had such an amazing elegance with words? "I'm afraid I'm just not tired. However, you obviously are. I don't want you to be all prickly towards your sisters tomorrow morning because you haven't gotten enough sleep."  
"Fine," He submitted. He was awfully tired, anyway. It was hard to believe his father wasn't, seeing as he'd spent so much time at the office yesterday. "Will you be back tomorrow?"  
"Of course," His father smiled once more, placing him in bed. He ruffled his hair, gently tousling his curly red mop. The covers were pulled over him, and his father moved to leave once more.  
"You promise?" He pulled on the sheets, sticking his head up off the pillow. "You promise that you will?"  
"You have my word. And know this," He turned one last time, his mouth strained with the weight of an otherwise light smile. "A true gentleman never goes back on his word."


	6. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wait·ing  
> ˈwādiNG
> 
> noun
> 
> 1.  
> the action of staying where one is or delaying action until a particular time or until something else happens.

"Flora," Alfendi called down the stairs. His sisters were making their morning meal in the kitchen, from the cacophony of pots and pans clashing against each other. "Has Father come back home yet?"  
"What? I thought he was still in bed," The clattering stopped, replaced by the shuffling of sock clad feet on tile. A chill had come over the night before, and rain slithered down the window pane and into the ground. "Do you mean to tell me the professor's somewhere else?"  
"I saw him last night," He offered, one hand on the railing as he descended the steps. "He said he was going out for a bit, but he promised he'd come back."  
"I'm sure he'll return soon. In the meantime," A set of dishes angrily rattled against each other as they were set upon the granite countertop. "Can you help me and Kat with breakfast?"  
Their father was not home by the time they finished cooking. They sat at the round wooden table, scuffed by cups and plates and forks, one chair empty, alone. They'd eaten in the backyard yesterday, as there were not enough places for Luke to sit, and their father did not want them eating while sitting on the carpet.  
Alfendi finished last, having pushed his food around on his plate long enough. He glanced at the dish across from him, untouched. It was where his father would have sat. He stood, setting his now empty plate in the left portion of the sink. He and Katrielle would clean the dishes every afternoon, after they had lunch but before they had dinner.  
Flora wrapped a layer of foil over the undisturbed serving, stashing it in the small, white refrigerator between a set of cabinets. The storm had picked up, feuled by some slight change in air pressure or some other bit of meteorological nonsense. His father probably would have already put the Laytonmobile away in the garage, having read the forecast the night before - that was, if he was home.  
"Daddy still isn't back yet. I wonder where he went," Kat rocked back in forth on her heels, holding herself up by the window sill at the front of the house. Her eyes would flicker from the road to the droplets streaking down the glass, then to the road and back again. "Alfendi, when do you think he'll be back?"  
"I don't know," He mumbled, eyes on the asphalt just outside the black fence. A car or two drove by. Water rushed along the sides of the road, disappearing in between the black bars of the sewage drains.  
"I hope its soon. Ooh!" She put her hands to either side of her face, turning towards him. "Maybe he'll come back with something cute! Like a puppy!"  
"Yeah," Alfendi smiled, ruffling her curls with his knuckles. She quickly moved to correct her hair. "He probably just got caught in some little adventure. I bet he'll be back by tonight. After all, he promised me he'd be home."


	7. Leaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> leave
> 
> lēv
> 
> verb
> 
> 1.  
> go away from.  
> synonyms: depart from, go away from, go from, withdraw from, retire from, take oneself off from, exit from, take one's leave of, pull out of, be gone from, decamp from, disappear from, vacate, absent oneself from; say one's farewells/goodbyes to, quit; informal push off from, shove off from, clear out/off of, cut and run from, split, vamoose from, scoot from  
> "  
> set off, head, make;  
> set sail

He dialed the number on the phone slowly. Even though it was late at night, they were all awake, sitting at the couch behind the four - seat table.

9

Alfendi's finger lingered over the button. Katrielle yawned, wiping water from her eyes, curled up next to Flora. The latter showed no sign of falling alseep, attentive, almost like a soldier preparing for war. Every part of her was tense, much like himself has he pushed the next number.

9

"Alfendi?" Katrielle mumbled, probably half asleep. "When is Daddy coming home?"  
"I don't know," His hands were shaking, the home phone shivering in his palm. "I'm sorry, Kat. I don't know."

9

Two police officers arrived at their house twenty minutes later, soaked, even though they'd only walked from their cars. The rain came down in thick sheets, coating everything in a watery film. Alfendi could see the red and blue flash of police cars from the steps and through the open door across from them.  
"Where do you think he could have gone?" The woman in the Yard uniform asked. Her tone was an awful, childish thing, as if with each word she walked through a minefield, and one wrong step would put her in danger.  
"He didn't say anything about where," Al mumbled, back straight as he sat on the second step, unmoving. "He just said he was going out."  
"Do you know where he usually went?" She had a notepad in one hand, a pen loosely dangling from between her fingers. The man with her was busy talking to Flora, while Katrielle had stayed by the table, as her sister instructed. "It could help a lot in the search."  
"No," He growled, his red hair left hanging in front of his face. "Why aren't you looking for him?"  
"Other officers are looking for him right now," She had that same tone again, that awful, gentle edged tone, the one that tiptoed around questions with vague answers and a soft voice.  
"They haven't found him yet. I bet I could find him faster than they could."  
"We're trying our best, but there's not a lot to go on," She slipped the pad back into her jeans, clipping the pen to her breast pocket. The man talking to Flora edged closer to her, finished with his questions. "We think someone took him somewhere. Do you have any idea who would do something like that?"  
"No. All the people who would are in prison," Well, most of them. He stood, shuffling closer to the kitchen.  
"Well, thank you for your help." They hadn't done anything to further the search. "Is there anyone you three can stay with while we look for him?"  
"There is a family, in Misthallery," Flora spoke. Their grandmother was much farther away than the Tritons were, having moved recently, and their grandfather had passed on a year or so before. "Our father was very close to them. Perhaps they could take us in?"  
"Alright, then. Can you see if they can come pick you up? Be sure to lock the doors until they get here, and lock them again before you leave."  
"Okay," Alfendi mumbled, brushing the hair from his eyes. Al had retreated for now, so he would have to make the call himself. He made his way to the phone, resting in its cradle on the counter near the table. He picked it up, ready to dial the number.  
"Alfendi?" Katrielle spoke from the couch. "Are the police people leaving now?"  
"They will be, soon," He starting pressing the buttons, holding the receiver to his ear. The tone droned on over the line, a monotonous, hollow sound. "They're going to find Father."  
"Daddy'll be back soon?" She mumbled. He was about to answer her, but someone soon answered the phone before he could.  
"Hello? Hershel?" A man's tired voice came out over the line. It was awfully late. "What are you calling about?"  
"Mister Triton?" He murmured into the phone. "It's his son, Alfendi."  
"Why are you calling so late at night?" The weariness in his voice soon left, followed by worry and concern. "Is something the matter?"  
"We need someone to stay with for a while. Could you come get us, at the house?" Some shuffling, a few muffled swears as something fell of an end table, or some other platform of sorts. "Father's missing."  
"What? What do you mean by that?"  
"We don't know where he is. He said he would be home, but I haven't spoken to him since last night."  
"Ah," A simple, dumbfounded sound. "I understand. I'll be there soon, just - just hang tight."  
The line went dead. He returned the phone to its resting place, and he himself returned to the police woman. Flora still milled about, staring at her feet with her hands folded in front of her.  
"He's coming," It was all he had to say.  
"Do you want us to stay until he gets here?" She asked.  
"No." Al spat. Alfendi wasn't entirely against the idea, but Al, however . . . "We'll be fine. We'll lock the doors, like you said."  
"Are you sure?" She gave him a quizzical look, watching him straighten his back and throw down his bangs. Al had to differentiate he and Alfendi somehow. She wouldn't understand, and he didn't feel like explaining it.  
"Yes." He hissed. She gave her partner one final look before resigning. They were waved off, and the only trace they left of their visit was a single business card with their phone numbers written on it. If they needed anything, she'd said, they could call and they would help.  
Feh. As if they could help.  
He crumpled the card in his pocket, tucking it between a few of the papers. Alfendi staggered over to the closet, tearing one of Father's coats off its hanger. The pockets were big enough to fit all the newspapers, and he felt safe, wrapped inside it. It was too big and far too long, but it was warm and soft on the inside, and had a hood to protect him from the rain.  
"Flora," He mumbled. "Can you help Katrielle gather her things?"  
She nodded, moving into the kitchen as he took on the stairwell.  
Mister Triton arrived about a half hour later. By then they'd already put all their things in suitcases, almost as if they were only going on a vacation (they knew that was not the case). Flora said nothing about the jacket he'd taken, though it caught her eye. His hands shielded each news article as they got into Mister Triton's car, setting their things into the trunk.  
He was still missing the paper on Ambrosia.  
"Mister Triton," He'd spoken after the other two had fallen asleep, their heads propped against the side doors and their seatbelts. "Do you have the Times from when Father discovered Ambrosia?"  
"I think I have a copy somewhere. Why?" He didn't look away from the road, wipers furiously sweeping away water, only to have it return once more. His hands gripped the wheel tighter, each word clipped, and short. It seemed as if he spoke too much, he would crumble and fall apart.  
"I need it to finish my collection," His throat dried. Alfendi elaborated no further (he lacked the strength), but it seemed that the man understood.  
"I'll see what I can do."  
"Thank you,"  His resolve collapsed, as if it were spider's gossamer web that a child drove their foot through.  
After all, the papers were the only thing he had left of his Father.


	8. Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> change  
> CHānj
> 
> verb
> 
> 1.  
> make or become different.
> 
> alter in terms of.
> 
> synonyms: alter, make/become different, adjust, adapt, amend, modify, revise, refine; reshape, refashion, redesign, restyle, revamp, rework, remodel, reorganize, reorder; vary, transform, transfigure, transmute, metamorphose, evolve; informal tweak, doctor, rejig; technical permute

Everyone else in the Triton household was asleep, besides their faithful butler, who milled about, cleaning this and that. Alfendi hadn't taken much notice of him until he started towards them.  
"Ah, Master Clark," He stopped, hands gently folded in front of his chest. "I've prepared a bed in Master Luke's room, as you requested."  
"Thank you, Doland." Mister Triton ran five digits through his hair, his breath coming out in a sigh of relief. "These three will be staying with us for a while. They're Hershel's kids."  
"Ah, yes. I believe you mentioned them at some point." He turned to look at them before turning back to Clark, worried. "But why will they be staying here? Has something happened?"  
"It's nothing," He sighed, urging the rest of them further through the door. "I'll speak to you later, in private."  
"You said there was only one other bed," Flora, holding Katrielle's hand, spoke up. She dragged her forward by the arm, wandering towards the stairs. "Where will the others sleep?"  
"Oh, er," He scratched the back of his head, ruffling his pointed, brown hair. "There are couches in the living room . . ."  
"Flora," Katrielle mumbled. She tugged on her palm, five fingers dragging against hers. "Can you sleep with me tonight? Pleeeaaaase?"  
"Alfendi? Do you mind?" Flora turned, tired eyed and heavy footed, towards him. Her eyes were swollen red around the edges from crying, her face still torn with grief. "I'm going to share the cot with Kat."  
"It's fine, go ahead." He really didn't care where he slept. He'd gotten used to sleeping in strange places - places no one could reach - early on in his life. "I'll take the couch."  
He watched as they went, tiptoeing up the creaking steps and into the hall above. Doland followed Mister Triton as he followed his sisters, leaving him alone in the living room.  
The green loveseats seemed more and more welcoming by the second. Alfendi stumbled over to the lime cushions, his shoe laces tangled over each other and under his feet. He pushed the red sneakers off beside the end table between the two, laying down across the virescent pillows. His sock covered feet lay on the arm of the couch, toes sticking up over his head.  
He tossed around for a spell, trying to process exactly what happened. His father was . . . gone? The day was blurred between the words of a woman on the emergency hotline, and the two police officers that had come to their house. What was going to happen to their house? Who was going to watch over it while they were gone? Did they even own it? Questions plagued his mind, swarming like locusts and eating any other thoughts.  
He heard someone taking the stairs, but didn't stir from his resting place. Mister Triton bent over and placed a paper on the end table, preparing to leave without another word.  
"Mister Triton?" Alfendi murmured, startling the older man.  
"Ah, I, er, thought you were asleep."  
"Can you make sure no one takes our house? I wanna go back home some day."  
"Uh, sure," He turned to leave again, hesitating a moment. His bare feet stuck to the wooden floor, skin wet against the boards. "I'll see what I can do."  
Alfendi watched him for as long as he could, before sitting up and turning to the table. Mister Triton hadn't retrieved his paper. The boy picked it up, about to call him back, but he turned to look at the article.  
The headline read, "Local University Professor Discovers Ancient Civilization".  
He quickly began skimming the post.  
"Professor Hershel Layton, of Gressenheller University's archaeology department, once again makes a shocking breakthrough. This Saturday, Layton brought to light the existence of a civilization once thought to be mere myth. With his discovery of Ambrosia, many historians and explorers are flocking to the island to find what exactly Layton did find. Upon it's discovery, Ambrosia . . ."  
His hands were shaking, more than one of his fingers opened by the sharp edge of the paper. His stomach dropped into the soles of his feet as thunder crackled outside, a flash of lightning illuminating the dark house. Tears blotted the ink, soaking through the paper. Rolled it up, gently, so as not to rip it, and slipped it into the pocket of his father's winter jacket.  
He curled up against the arm of the couch, pulling the fur lined hood around him. He covered his eyes, waiting for sleep to embrace him. The night dragged on, and after a while, he closed his eyes and drifted away.  
A swathe of reporters crowded the Triton Manor the next morning, pens and paper out, cameras and microphones ready. Luke wasn't aware the Laytons had even arrived.  
"What's happened?" He insisted, still in his pajamas. "Why are you all here?"  
They said nothing, only giving him shameful, sideways glances and pained looked.  
"Where's the professor?" His face was twisted with with concern, then fear. Sorrow followed suit. "Where is he? What happened to him?"  
"Luke, listen," Mister Triton answered for them. He bent down, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "The professor left two nights ago, and . . . and no one has heard from his since."  
"No, no," He pulled away. "You're joking. Where is he?"  
"Luke, please."  
"He can't be gone! He's not . . ." His hands went up to his face, wiping away tears and covering his shame. "He can't be . . ."  
"I'm so sorry," Alfendi stumbled over to his side, hands wrung among each other. His paper cuts stung as his fingers touched. "I saw him last. I should've said something, anything. It's my fault."  
"No, it's not," Luke mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "It's just . . . I miss him already . . ."  
"We'll find him." Alfendi lowered his voice to a whisper, mostly speaking to himself. Perhaps in some dogged attempt to trick his mind. "I'll find him."


	9. News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> news  
> n(y)o͞oz
> 
> noun
> 
> newly received or noteworthy information, especially about recent or important events.
> 
> a broadcast or published report of news.
> 
> synonyms: report, announcement, story, account; article, news flash, newscast, headlines, press release, communication, communiqué, bulletin; news crawl, news ticker; message, dispatch, statement, intelligence; disclosure, revelation, word, talk, gossip; informal scoop; literary tidings

The Times the following day entailed the known details about the disappearance of the great Professor Layton. There were pictures of his family, along with the Tritons, all trying to avoid the camera, and the limelight it came with.  
"There's no end to them." Flora gasped at the mob outside through the window, all flashing lenses and loud voices.  
"It's awful, them making an easy pound off Dad going missing," Al hissed. His folded his arms, holding the brown jacket against him (he'd never taken it off). "They're just concerned with lining their own pockets."  
"Al, I'm sure most of them just want to let people know he's out there somewhere." She turned back to him, hands on the window pane. Doland stood by in the other room, where Katrielle excitedly chattered to the man about mystery and adventure. "They're only helping."  
"If I have to talk to another reporter, I'm going to cut out all their tongues."  
"I'm sure there's plenty of less violent solutions," Flora walked towards him, sitting beside him on the pea green couch. He pulled the coat tighter around himself, bringing the newspapers closer to his hands.  
"Maybe instead of writing about him," He grumbled. "They should be out looking for him."  
"The police are." She offered. She slid closer to him, and Al slid further away. "The Yard has a bunch of teams out looking for him."  
"They still haven't found him."  
"They're looking everywhere for him, Al." She put her hand over his, and he pulled away.  
"But they still haven't found him," He hissed. "I bet I could find him."  
"Al, you -" Alfendi brushed his hair back, bending over and ruining his posture under the hazel jacket.  
"I'm sorry, Flora," He moved a little closer to her, but they were still apart. He made no move to go away when she came closer, putting an arm around him. "I just - I want to see him again."  
"I do too," She put the other arm across his chest, being careful to not crush the papers in his pockets. "But you can't just run off."  
"Flora . . ." She sniffled, holding him tighter.  
"I don't want to lose you, too," She cried, shaking. He put his own arms around her, turning towards her. The newspapers remained safe. "I don't want to lose anyone ever again."  
"Flora, it's okay. I," He stopped when she looked up at him, teary eyed. The brown apple mark usually visible on her neck had faded long ago, back when they'd called the Yard. "We're all still here. Me, Katrielle - we won't leave you, I promise."  
"Really?" She let him go, drying her tears. "You mean it?"  
He gave a small smile, holding her against him again. Her head rested on his shoulder, like she used to do to their father.  
"You have my word."


	10. Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fi·na·le
> 
> fəˈnalē, fəˈnälē
> 
> noun
> 
> the last part of a piece of music, a performance, or a public event, especially when particularly dramatic or exciting.
> 
> synonyms: climax, culmination; end, ending, finish, close, conclusion, termination; denouement, last act, final scene

"Oi, Professor," Lucy spoke up from over the desk. Alfendi looked up. "I din't think y'knew any ladies other'n Hilda."  
"What?" He swung his feet off the desk, sitting up (as much as he usually would. His back still didn't touch the seat) in the office chair. "Really?"  
"Aye," She muttered, staring at a paper. He felt his hands go to his pockets - he'd kept up with the search for his father, having every paper that ever mentioned his name. He'd paid a pound a month the past ten or so years for a subscription to the Times. Even then, he only kept papers regarding Hershel Layton. He even had the ones from when he was in that coma, four years ago. "And now you're gettin' letters from some lass who were goin' on about 'er bein' a woman a' mystery, of sorts."  
"Wait - woman of mystery?" He stood, taking the letter from between her fingers. "These letters have been from Katrielle. How come I haven't seen them yet?"  
"You 'adn't seen 'em? They've been pilin' up by the door for the last month." She bent down, bringing up a stack of papers. "Sniffer kept slippin' 'em through the crack int' th' doorway."  
"Ah, God," He flopped back into the chair, hand over his eyes. "She's probably worried herself to Hell and back."  
"Aye, aye, whatever. But who is this Katrielle lass, anyway?" He uncovered his face. Lucy had firmly put both her hands on her hips, cocking them out at one side. "Strangest name I ev'r 'eard. Well, for a damsel, at least. Though nothin's rarer than Alfendi, I assume?"  
"I guess it runs in the family," He sighed, rubbing his temples. Why did their father have such peculiar name choice?  
"Eh?"  
"Katrielle Layton. My younger sister."  
"Eee! Professor, ya never told me 'bout no sister!" She squealed. "I oughta write 'er sometime. I been needin' someone to gossip with."  
"What? Like you don't talk enough?"  
" 'Ey! I can't tell you everythin', now can I? A girl's gotta keep secrets with other girls!"  
"You have Hilda." He offered. Lucy, however, was already furiously scribbling onto a sheet of paper, referring to the envelopes for Kat's address.  
"Hilda's no good for gossip. Oh, dy'think she'd give me 'er phone number?" Another quick work of her pen, and the letter was hastily folded and shoved into a package. "I'm gettin' this posted right after work!"  
"Still, I'm surprised that she's gotten a place of her own so quickly. I thought she was still living with Flora." He mulled it over a moment, skimming one of the letters at the top of the pile. "I was still living in the old house when I was twenty."  
"Ooh, who's Flora?"  
"Older sister." He mumbled.  
"Oi, quite the family you've got. Was it boring with no other boys?"  
"Not particularly."  
"Did you get along well?"  
"Fine, as far as I remember."  
"Did y'ev'r get your nails painted? I know y'do yours yerself now, but . . ."  
"Alright! No more questions!"  
"But -"  
"Nope, done. Goodbye, go home, see you tomorrow."  
"Oi, it's closin' time already?" She flashed a glance at the clock. It wasn't like he kept very strict hours at the Mystery Room anyway. Besides, they'd finished plenty on the case Dustin had given them yesterday. He'd probably finish it tomorrow before Baker even came in.  
"Yep," He turned towards a solitary coat hook, taking his father's old brown parka off the rack. The chestnut jacket rested over his white coat, shielding the newspapers in his pockets. He pulled it tighter around himself, bracing for rain, and opened the door. "Have a good one, Lucy."  
"Eh?! Er, you too, Professor!" She called, scrambling to gather her own things. "Tell those sisters of yours we should get together sometime! All four of us!"  
"I'll see what I can do," He mumbled, pulling the hood over his head, watching the sky's tears sheet down. "Be sure to lock up."  
"Bye, Professor!" She waved, and he closed the door behind him.


End file.
